Rhodes Rhesponse - Media Approved

**Media Release - Clearance Approved**

Due to certain recent events, accusations have been made centring on two core issues. I refer to reports by Mr SatNav yesterday via email which clearly state:

    1.“Bullet may have to re-spray his Astana coloured Trek for fear of guilt by association,” and 2.“- his escalation in form in his 7 months of riding has been quite remarkable.....”

Whilst loathe to dignify such spurious claims that verge on outrageous at best and libellous at worst,  with any sort of response;  I am compelled to protect my reputation which has been called into question; the damage from which  I may never recover.

To the first point:

There can be no question that I gain an advantage from riding such an attractive two-wheeled steed as this. However, it does not so much enhance my riding performance as diminish that of the peloton.

I empathise with you as ponder the delicate interplay of pastel colours, the clean lines and divine decals, the subtle Euro styling – let’s face it, it’s downright hot! I too would be spellbound by such a sight, my legs too would go to jelly, and my impetus to drive onwards would desert me. I don’t blame you; you’re only human, after all.

I can only apologise for that which Providence has deigned to bless me in ample abundance….. it’s a burden, but one I carry with appropriate martyrdom.

To the second point:

I admit that recent tests have returned higher than normal levels of clenbuterol in my system. This is merely a coincidence with my more famous and almost as handsome counterpart. Though uncommon, there is recorded evidence that increased levels of clenbuterol can result from ingesting meat such as beef; the animal being fed the substance in order to reduce fat and create a leaner product.

Independent analysts and medical specialist have been poring over my case in recent hours and have identified the source of this uncommon occurrence in my body chemistry. They have searched, investigated, drilled down, eliminated through process and derived the only possible explanation that can be supported by science – bagels.

We have identified an EWOTY stop in previous weeks where one of the Comrades entreated the group to partake of his bagel in his absence for fear that the establishment would no longer support his dependence – nay, addiction – to the said pastry. I in my naivety agreed and consumed the item, unaware of the calamitous ramifications of this simple action. I never knew that a bagel was made from beef – but there you go. 

The person who made this request I will not name (Mr Bucky), as it is not in my nature to slur a colleague – even when subterfuge and conspiracy have been at play - unlike Mr SatNav, who has seen a target and taken a pot shot with little regard to outcomes and long term effects.

I will continue to work to clear my name, commute with my heart on my sleeve, pee into a jar on demand and never, ever, ever, eat another bagel.

I have nothing to hide, but will not be taking questions.

Rhodes Rangers

For heightened reading experience, please use the following link for the purposes of underscore http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iteRKvRKFA

6.20am – Standing  in the front of the mirror looking resplendent in latest bike porn purchase from www.ridemeallthewaytotheoffice.com “Yes Bullet, you still got it.”

6.26am – Kisso. First to arrive. Then there was one.

6.30am – Phantom arrives debonair as always styled by Santini (plug for sponsor). Fails to notice bike porn. Humph. Then there were 2.

6.33am – B2B brethren arrive and immediately threatened by ER’s in dashing kit. We head off.

6.35am – Kisso and Commenara lights. PD pulls up. No oil painting but always welcome on board. Then there were 3.

6.38am – Climb out of Brown’s Waterhole. Encounter Bucky trapped in winter wardrobe. Cutting a smooth euro line in Bucky Couture – alluring yet understated.  Then there were 4.

6.40am – Top of the Waterhole. Chippo awaits. Enigmatic. Cool and casual as always. How does that man look so good? Whispers of concern that he may return to sandals as the weather warms, God forbid. Then there were 5.

6.41am – First roundabout. Eric meets the Magnificents, limping on a loaner as he awaits insurance assessors. Gaudy in Orange (I think), I defer to his 5 days in a row commute. Legs burning with pain, cheeks flushing with self-consciousness as he espies Phantom’s pret-a-commute wear. The Benchmark. Then there were 6.

6.43am – Epping Road lights. Richard-on- Lynskey joins the party. Kinda punk, a bit retro, always cool. Lynskey cassette chatters merrily confirming our suspicion that if you’re making a lot of noise, then you must be having a good time. Then there were 7, hence the underscore.

6.50am – Blaxland Road lights. Browney arrives. Undermines allusion. Typical of a fixie. Riding and dressing to his own renegade tune, we look in in a mixture of awe, jealousy and (mild) disgust. Then there were 8.

6.51 – 7.49am – Rhoaming the Rhodes Rhanges and pondering:

• ·         SatNav’s absence – preparing for the long haul to Bowral tomorrow including a climb up the infamous Macquarie Pass (not bank).  We all have our own personal Everest; Satnav’s just happens to be near Wollongong. Never mind.

• BT freesocking his way into the office; footloose with a hint of odour.

• RTG taking the Captain’s route for an early Friday meeting demonstrating a clear lack of ability when it comes to foresight and planning

• Drastic and 52 heading off to the Masters event in Victoria. Our thoughts and best wishes are with you. We trust you will ride like men escaping a Freudian  analysis and look forward to yarns dripping with metaphor. Stay safe. God’s speed to you.

7.50am – Café Bullet. Only four survive – Phantom, Eric, Bucky, Humble Scribe. All bar Eric take positions on near side of table, looking fabulous though a little obvious. Eric curses his lack of strategy as study and sample period commences.

7.51am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Conversation ceases.

7.53am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Acknowledge the timeless appeal of British racing green (see Bucky).

7.51am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. The Lord of Warrawee arrives, disrupting sightlines. Takes position on near side of the table. Go figure.

7.56am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Conversation ceases.

7.58am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. A particularly good example. Phantom chokes on bacon and egg sanger. 

8.01am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Conversation ceases.

8.03am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Bucky sings the praises of Bircher muesli again.

8.05am – Café Bullet. Mark passing fauna. Conversation ceases.

8.17am – Depart Café Bullet. Sated and spent. Call goes up to re-convene at Groingate. “Here, here!” the resounding approval. Pats on back. Fond farewells. Bonded through shared experience. This surely is the commute of the week.

Usual departure 5.15pm SHB with or without socks.

Bullet (Le)

The Misty Moors of Meadowbank

Most rides begin in much the same way; there is a gathering of single purpose, an unspoken bond renewed, and a hint of something that, for the sake of publication, we’ll call expectation.

And so it was on this fine morning as the world cast aside the Gods’ tirade of yesterday and promised a reward of light, warmth, good coffee and a fauna gaze. Too good to resist.

• New Steve unveiled his sparkling Bianchi
• Gnashing of teeth exemplified our sense of injustice for Larri
• RTG with his seat post fashionably higher snorted and threw back his head as he prepared to unleash his rampant stallion on its first Rhodes crusade
• Not wanting to sound gay, but BT looked a picture of health and virility after sustained conditioning through consecutive days on the bike
• Drastic was....... well,  Drastic.

As we descended into The Waterhole a sharp drop on the thermometer suggested that it would be folly to assume that circumstance cannot quickly change; the climb out the other side akin to emerging from the cold womb of Hecate to the warmth of a mother’s embrace. (Too florid, perhaps?)

One could have been forgiven for assuming that this spin would be much like most others until we reached the back of Denistone East (or Denizen East)  where rising out  of the distance rose a fog worthy of Dickens; thick, foreboding……… and foggy. Fingerless gloves transported us back in time as we plunged into this dank unknown, and the fog wrapped its cloying fingers around the Easy Riders and drew them into its ethereal bosom.

Near panic ensued as instruments failed, compasses span aimlessly and the collective direction relieved itself of its sense.  No way out. Trapped through eternity in Meadowbank.

As all contemplated the Backdoor Route to the Afterlife, a plaintive cry was heard in the distance, inaudible to all but one with the highly attuned senses commensurate with his pedigree.

“BT……..BT……..follow my voice. I will lead you to safety…..”

Aghast and agog, incredulous and dumbfounded, BT recognized immediately the timbre of that Angel’s voice, though his mind was in outright revolt over the possibility that such a one could reach out from the Other Side. As Heathcliff was to Kathy, as Tristan was to Isolde, so was BT to his kindred Spirit.

It was Aunty Enid.

“Follow me, Lads! All is not lost!” proclaimed the gallant BT. “I will chart a course through this murky mire in Meadowbank for we are guided and protected by this Guardian Angel, this Patron Saint (proposed) of the Easy Riders. Lead on Aunty Enid!!”

They twisted and turned through the gnarly backstreets unable to discern reality from fiction. Figures ghosted from the verges, trees reached down to scratch the Peloton with their sharp nails, and all prayed in the hope that BT was not in fact just barking mad.

Using prescient focus, BT lasered his aural faculty following the voice of Aunty Enid, holding on with all his resolve so as not to lose the trail or control of key bodily functions.

“Lead on Aunty Enid! Sing us to the Light!” he screamed as he burst through the surface of the fog soup, emerging from the denizens of doubt, leading his brothers to redemption and the prospect of one more bacon and egg sanger.

It was a rag tag but relieved bunch that gathered at Café Bullet to feast and wassail in celebration of Brave BT and their new Patron Saint (proposed) of the Easy Riders.

BT had led the ER’s through the trial unscathed, but somewhat saddened; for there are places that Spirits cannot venture. Aunty Enid had returned to The Other Side, but he was grateful to have felt her presence one more time.

As he once told Humble Scribe. “Enid knew a good bike, and she liked a hard ride”.

God Bless.